lf---might shout aloud the
truth, boast of it, triumph in it, be naked in the glory of it. Day
by day the pressure had been increased, day by day his loneliness had
grown, day by day the pursuit had drawn closer.

And now he hardly recognized the real from the false. He paced his room
frantically. He felt that on the other side of the bedroom door there
was terror. He had turned on all his lights; a furious fire was blazing
in the grate; beyond the windows cold stars and an icy moon, but in here
stifling heat.

When Bunning (the clocks were striking eleven) came blinking in upon him
he was muttering--"Let me go, let me go. I killed him, I tell you. I'm
glad I killed him. . . . Oh! Let me alone! For pity's sake let me alone!
I _can't_ confess! Don't you see that I can't confess? There's Margaret.
I must keep her---afterwards when she knows me better I'll tell her."

As he faced Bunning's staring glasses, the thought came to Him, "Am I
going mad?--Has it been too much for me?---Mad?"

He stopped, wheeled round, caught the table with both hands, and leaned
over to Bunning, who stood, his mouth open, his cap and gown still on.

Olva very gravely said: "Come in, Bunning. Shut the door. 'Sport' it.
That's right. Take off your gown and sit down."

The man, still staring, white and frightened, sat down.

Olva spoke slowly and very distinctly: "I'm glad you've come. I want to
talk to you. I killed Carfax, you know." As he said the words he began
slowly to come back to himself from the Other World to this one. How
often, sleeping, waking, had he said those words! How often, aloud, in
his room, with his door locked, had he almost shouted them!

He was not now altogether sure whether Bunning were really there or no.
His spectacles were there, his boots were there, but was Bunning there?
If he were not there. . . .

But he _was_ there. Olva's brain slowly cleared and, for the first time
for many weeks, he was entirely himself. It was the first moment of
peace that he had known since that hour in St. Martin's Chapel.

He was quiet, collected, perfectly calm. He went over to the window,
opened it, and rejoiced in the breeze. The room seemed suddenly empty.
Five minutes ago it had been crowded, breathless. There was now only
Bunning.

"It was so awfully hot with that enormous fire," he said.

Bunning's condition was peculiar. He sat, his large fat face white and
streaky, beads of perspiration on his forehead, his hands gri